


Always Have A Home

by sasha_b



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Charles loves Raven and Erik, Drunkenness, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:58:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1735370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raven can't leave Charles alone for too long.  Neither can Erik.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always Have A Home

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS FOR DOFP.
> 
>  
> 
> Written for a prompt on the kink meme on LJ (paraphrasing) After the events in Washington, Raven comes to visit Charles in other forms and he helps to hide this from the others.

“I’m fine, really. I don’t know why Hank felt the need to call anyone.”

Charles frowns politely at Hank over the doctor’s shoulder as the man pokes and prods him and checks the dressing at his head, clucking over the size of the goose egg he still has. The rain has begun pissing buckets and Hank’s slightly chagrinned, running a hand over his hair as the doctor examines Charles.

“I know we have some things here, professor,” Hank starts, “but that head wound was pretty bad. I just thought it would be wise to check.” He coughs and hems and haws and Charles can’t help but allow his frown to shift slightly into a small smile.

“Never mind, Hank. Would you be so kind as to get the doctor some tea?”

The older man shakes his head as he’s putting his stethoscope back in his bag. “I’m leaving now. Everything seems to check out; I’m glad Ha- Mr. McCoy called me.” He seems to hesitate; Charles nods imperceptibly and mimes a gesture that Hank interprets as _show him to the door, then_. “Thank you, Dr. Martel, was it?” He rolls along with the doctor and Hank, the lightning strobing the inside of the mansion, shadows where there were none.

The doctor looks down at his coat. “Yes. Treat that head wound gently, would you, professor? It’s no joke. These things can cause lots of problems,” he adds, his voice a bit wobbly, the man having to clear his throat to speak plainly. Charles’ right eyebrow raises a fraction of an inch; he murmurs a _thank you_ as Hank sees the doctor all the way to the door.

“He didn’t seem to care about the weather,” Hank comments as he bolts the large lock closed. He shrugs. “Sorry, professor. I just – that’s a bad knock you had there,” he smiles sheepishly and rests his hand on the back of his neck.

More lighting.

“No, it’s fine, Hank,” Charles answers, distracted, already looking toward his bedroom. “I’ll just see myself to bed, shall I? We have a lot of work to do tomorrow,” he throws the comment over his shoulder as he wheels himself away from Hank and the door. “Make sure the painters are here on time, will you?”

Hank opens his mouth to answer but Charles is gone, door shut.

*

The moment Charles is alone he rolls quickly – hands on the wheels faster than the remote power button – to the window, stretching, trying to see outside. All he can see is the dark and the lashing of trees and detritus from the landscaping blowing in the nasty weather. He shoves up from the chair, trying to get a better angle, his eyes wide and searching.

He swallows over a lump in his throat after several minutes of looking and he pinches his mouth and touches his right hand to his temple, closing his eyes.

_Raven_

he says softly, with his mind and his lips, and doesn’t expect an answer –

but she’s there, brushing up against him, and he has to clap a hand over his mouth when he finds her, still looking like Doctor Martel, even though he can feel her crying. She doesn’t answer him, but she doesn’t immediately disappear, either.

He opens his eyes but keeps his hand on his temple, riding along next to her, a phantom in the rain, his sister gradually shifting her disguise to her true look, her hair damp and dark in the gloom and he can feel the egg on his head and the stitches he’d had to have after Erik had dropped part of RFK stadium on him.

He blinks at that thought, and she’s gone, suddenly.

He lowers his hand to his lap and sits back in the chair fully; he knows Hank had actually called a doctor for him, and he hopes the real Doctor Martel doesn’t hate the strange blond that had charmed him too much when he comes to and realizes she’s stolen his wallet and car and the rest of his things.

He rolls back toward his bed, levering himself from the chair to the mattress, and leans back, rubbing his injury, his mind going from Raven to Erik and back and he finally snaps the light off in frustration, the wetness in his own eyes annoying and too warm. Maybe it’s a fluke she chose to come like this; when he’d seen her in Washington, he’d thought that would have been the last time for a while, or – ever, really, even though he doesn’t want to think like that.

And then there’s the other one he doesn’t want to think on, and he shuts his eyes and wipes under them and vows that if Raven comes back, he won’t push her or scare her off.

He’ll take what he can get.

*

A few months later he’s sat in the garden on the east side of the mansion, his chair behind him, his clothing old and dirty and he shoves his longish _I should cut it_ hair out of his face, smearing dirt on his forehead next to the scar that’s over his left eye. A reminder that he doesn’t need of what he doesn’t have.

The sun is bright and he’s warm but his hands are in the ground, moving plants around, flowers and ivy and things that are green and beautiful as the low buzz of the new student’s thoughts keep his brain occupied, so occupied he only realizes Hank’s come up behind him a few seconds before the other man speaks.

He’s got –

Charles whips around, great smile on his face –

“This is Max, professor. He’s the gardener I was telling you about – he can help with the things you can’t get to.” Hank beams and Charles’ smile wilts like the daisies in his office he’d let die unintentionally, a few days after they’d gotten back from Washington. He nods and Hank says _I’ll leave you to it_ and the stranger squats at Charles’ side, nondescript green clothing those of a landscaper.

The sun hits the other man’s eyes briefly and Charles sees the yellow flare and he sighs.

“You don’t need to do this,” he murmurs, but Max looks at him and keeps his mouth shut, reaching for the aerator Charles holds. “Let me help you, professor,” he says in a rumbly, slightly familiar voice. “That’s what I’m here for.”

_I’m your only friend._

_Thanks for that._

Charles rolls his lips inward but jerks his head sharply toward the bed he’d been working on. Wind picks up and raises his hair off his forehead and the stranger not-stranger narrows his/her eyes and reaches out a hand, looking at the scar over Charles’ eye. “Nasty knock,” he says. “How is it healing?”

Charles smiles.

“Fine, thanks to y- thanks to my friends, Max,” he answers, the words feeling funny but he says them anyway. He/She obviously needs this for some reason – he won’t push him. Her. Charles sighs and points to the rose buds he’s brought with him outside and shifts himself closer to the bricks he’s set up at the edge of a large brick wall.

He continues with the ivy he’s been working on, sneaking glances at the landscaper Raven is disguised as, not understanding why she’s not revealing herself when it’s just the two of them.

But he won’t press it, and he will take whatever she’s willing to give, and he touches the scar over his left eye briefly, wiping some of the dirt off as they plant and dig in the dirt in silence, the fact that no words other than what needs to be said in regards to the planting come from the two of them.

Several hours later Hank shows up and tells them lunch is ready; Max stands, dusting his hands off, and before Charles can say anything has him up and in the chair. “Don’t want to strain yourself,” he says and turns his back on Charles, walking away with Hank. Charles places his hands on the wheels and watches the two walk and talk, Hank animated about the flowers Charles has chosen for the outside garden, “Max” smiling broadly and listening.

_Thank you_

Charles bites his lips and allows the tears to come as he smiles through them.

_You’re always welcome home._

*

A year after the events in Washington things at the school are in full swing.

_Remember those names._

_Storm. Scott._

_Jean._

He’d kept his promise; Charles smiles at Jean as she plops the book he’d loaned her down on his lap, the battered copy of _The Once and Future King_ only a bit more worse for wear. He lets her prattle on about the things she’d liked and hadn’t liked about it, and she only groans slightly as he tells her to get ready to present her report in their English lesson the next day. She kisses his cheek and exits his office, reminding him it was his fault she liked reading anyway with a toothy smile. Her red hair swishes with a soft sound he finds comforting as he’s alone again, with his book and his suddenly aching head.

He’d let Erik read the book when the other man had been living here. That one week, so long ago. Another lifetime.

He eats with the students but retreats to his study as soon as he can, melancholia and night making him feel emotionally raw for some reason he can’t fathom. He loves Hank, he loves his students with a passion that surprises him, and he loves what they’re doing.

He’s not alone.

He hasn’t seen Raven in one form another for several months, and Erik – Erik’s disappeared completely. He’d known that would probably happen, but he swallows over the bitterness in his mouth and twists his lips, the small meal he’d eaten curdling in his gut.

He rolls to the cabinet behind his desk, and pulls out a bottle he’s not looked at in a while and, pouring a glass, doesn’t even look at the expensive liquid as he drinks, the sun setting gloriously behind his back, the curtains up and the moon rising as he continues to drink.

*

He has plenty of bottles of scotch, so it doesn’t matter that this one is mostly gone, and he wavers as he tries to look out the window – maybe she’s outside? Maybe she’ll come to see him tonight. He laughs and belches unexpectedly and blinks slowly and turns to face his desk – he knocks the copy of the T.H. White book off to the ground and he slithers out of his chair, fishing loopily under the desk, needing the book to be in a place of great reverence – both Erik and Raven had read it, along with Jean now. It’s important.

His head swims alarmingly and he laughs and cries suddenly at the same time, the scar over his left eye twinging even though the knock the bits of stadium had given him has healed well.

_Everything is in your hands._

He sucks back a sob and stays on the ground, the book staring at him, cover torn a bit from where Raven had accidentally ripped it when they had been discussing it one night a thousand years ago. He sticks his hand out again, catching the book in his hands, rubbery and tired and as drunk as he’s been in a long time, and he doesn’t jerk back when the long fingered hand touches his on top of the cover.

“Still living in the past?”

Charles sits up slowly, pushing himself with his left hand and clutching the book with his right. He leans against the desk and squints up at Erik – he shakes his head.

“You don’t have to wear a disguise with me, Raven. Let me see you.” He pushes at her mind in Erik’s shell, but something’s not right and he can’t get anything but the vague impression of _someone_ \- he sense maleness but there are things there that only Raven would know, too.

“This is me, Charles.”

“Come come, you don’t need to lie,” Charles laughs sloppily. He is rather drunk, isn’t he? Embarrassing. And dangerous. He touches his temple but Erik – Raven, he’s sure, even in his inebriated state – snatches at his hand and levers him into his chair. He’s sure it’s Raven now – Erik would have just lifted him by his metal belt. Or watch. Or maybe Erik would have just dropped more bits of concrete on him and left him there.

“Why are you drinking, Charles?” Erik/Raven sits across from him, wearing all black, and no helmet. Charles laughs and sets the book down on the desk, where it belongs. “Because I can. And because I have good reason, don’t you think, _Erik_?” He hasn’t felt this self-depreciating in a long time; it’s awful but God, he can wallow in self-pity for just a night, can’t he? No matter the great things Logan had said he was going to do – no matter that they all seem to think he’s perfect. Perfect Charles, never feeling pain, never remembering things, despite the fact he’d given up the use of his legs for the good of others.

He chokes on the rise of selfishness and bile but swallows it done with another sip. The breeze that blows in through the open window is a balm to his sweaty forehead; he rolls out from behind the desk and goes knee to knee with whomever is sitting in his office wearing the face of his –

“You aren’t alone, Charles.”

“I know that. But I’m not whole, either.”

The look on Erik’s face – Charles has seen that look before. And only when they’re alone, together, and only when it’s just him and Erik. Not Raven.

He narrows his eyes and this time when he touches his temple, the other man doesn’t stop him.

_the chill of the ocean where he’d found Erik._

_What do you know about me?_

_Everything._

_That man is a monster._

_I’m sorry, Charles. For what happened. I truly am._

_How – was – she?_

_She was…we were…_

“Erik,” Charles sighs and drops his hand to his lap drunkenly. He closes his eyes and _pushes_ , again, for he can feel her, too, now, both of them.

Erik squats at his feet and shoves his now short hair away from his forehead, touching the scar there. The lights in the study flicker and Charles opens his eyes at the touch. His mouth is a white line and he wants more of the drink, now. Now, please.

_I’m not in the mood for games, thank you._

“I’m not in the mood – ”

“This isn’t a game, Charles.”

“It never was, Erik,” he snaps, the other man’s name bitten off, a hard, dark taste that makes Charles want to spit. “Where is she?”

“Safe. This was her idea, you know.”

_My power comes from here, comes from…and it’s broken._

This was her idea, you know.

Charles shoves away from Erik and looks out the window. “You will always have a home here, with me,” he says softly, to the outside and his sister, who he now knows is out there, waiting for Erik, despite having left him to Charles a year ago. Charles had let them both go. He wonders now if that had been the wisest course of action. Erik stands behind him, _it’s really Erik_ , and rests his hands on Charles’ shoulders.

“This was her idea,” Charles repeats. Erik’s grip on him tightens for a moment.

“I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t agree with her.”

“Too little, too late, Erik.”

_You sent me. You and Erik, together._

“When will that happen, though?” Charles muses out loud, the alcohol in his system draining out, making him tired and squirmy and he has to pee, suddenly, and he’s just too tired for any of this. He touches his temple again and searches for Raven – he can feel her shape, out in the woods, but she’s getting better at blocking him. That makes his heart ache all over again.

Erik’s lips brush the top of Charles’ head, and he turns quickly in the chair, toward the other man, anger and old, old hurt contorting his face - _it’s broken_ \- and Erik shakes his head. “I am sorry, Charles.”

Charles knows he means it – but he doesn’t care.

“Just go,” he waves a hand at the door. “I don’t want to spend our entire lives repeating this scene, Erik. I’m tired. I love you, but I’m tired,” he says, slurring his words, drunk and exhausted. He means it, though, despite the anguish that comes with admitting it – Erik’s eyebrows descend like thunderheads but Charles closes his eyes until the door snaps shut with a sound that makes his scar throb.

He searches for Raven and can feel her leaving with Erik, knowing he won’t see her in any form at the house again, maybe never. He looks at the bottle and rubs his face and picks up the tattered book from where Erik had left it on the desk, the cover torn and dog-eared from too many years of love and reading.

He snarls and chucks the thing across the room, the sound it makes echoing inside his head like a canon, smoking, destructive, empty.

**Author's Note:**

> I have got to figure out a way to write a happy for them all. 
> 
> All lines from FC and DOFP belong to their respective writers.
> 
> Feedback is love.


End file.
